Tell Me About Them
by Gentlefurable
Summary: Takes place after the 70th Games. Haymitch and Effie do some talking about haymitch's past. There are elements of Hayffie but it's not really a romance story. One-shot.


**A.N. **My Hayffie feels are going apeshit today. I keep hearing Mahogany on T.V. and I'm watching the Flashpoint episode "One Wrong Move" which is making me ugly sob all over the place. I also just saw Matt Smith cry. Simple terms, I'm an emotional mess. So hopefully I can keep my feels within the reins, if not, bear with me. As always, Enjoy.

For all its flaws, the Capitol did look pretty damn spectacular at night. Leaning out on the balcony, Haymitch mused about whether the districts would have looked this good has they all been able to advance like this, and not serve the greater, selfish good. He ran a hand over his hair; the Capitol was in a state of victory. The Games were over and they were celebrating the victor, some seventeen year old brat from seven who wouldn't know his ass from his elbow if it held him at gunpoint. Of course maybe he was a bit biased as he'd just had to watch two more seam kids get slaughtered within twenty-four hours in a sand-trap infested arena.

When he heard the annoying click-clacking of high-heeled shows behind him he didn't hesitate to take a swig of whatever passed for alcohol in the God forsaken place.

"Haymitch you're missing everything!" Effie's voice trilled from behind him.

Haymitch rolled his eyes; he was in no mood to deal with the District Twelve escort right now. Especially seeing as both of them had had a few drinks.

"I think I'll be alright Sweetheart." He murmured quietly, resuming his city gazing with half-hearted interest.

He turned just in time to see Effie trip on one of her insanely tall heels. Years of ingrained instinct allowed him to move fast enough to catch her before she hit the ground, or more likely, the railing. She was grasping his upper arms, pure undulated shock evident on her face and he couldn't help but smirk. As he put her back into a standing position he was suddenly aware of how close they were, his hands were on her elbows and hers were still attached to his biceps. Even though she'd been drinking, her perfume was still dominant, she smelled like the capitol but there was still something uniquely her underneath it all. A cloying scent he wouldn't soon forget but couldn't name.

Every alarm in his body went off when he saw her lean in and he managed to escape before she could advance any further and heard her shoes click-clack quickly as she tried to regain her balance. He was not going there, not with a woman who sent children to their deaths every year for a living. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly as he sunk to the ground, still leaning against the damn railing. Behind his closed eyelids he saw a fourteen year old girl choking on sand and her own blood as she clawed desperately at life and an eighteen year old boy who had been stabbed in the back adjusting his shoe.

But it wasn't just them, it was the children who had been dying year after year because of him, in the beginning feeling hope because of his newly appointed victor status and as the years had gone by had slowly begun to resent him as he spiraled into what he was now.

He hadn't even known Effie was there until she was prying his hands away from his face with her smaller ones. He was suddenly struck by how small her hands were they were smooth and soft and flawless with perfectly manicured nails. They made his look hideous, which he wasn't denying, and they easily dwarfed hers.

"You're bleeding." She stated simply, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his forehead, presumably where his nails had dug into his skin.

"Thanks." He muttered, the sting already fading as she dabbed away, concentration etched on her face.

It occurred him that she had no reason to be helping him; better men would leave him to bleed and had done so. Yet here was Effie Trinket, wiping away his blood on a balcony in the middle of the night when she could be partying with all her capitol friends.

"What were you thinking about?" She queried, glancing up at him.

He shrugged, pulling her hands down from his face. "The Games. Tributes mostly."

She nodded, her hands coming to rest in her lap, just brushing his leg. He idly wondered what her hand would look like in his, whether it would fit perfectly like he imagined it would.

"Tell me about them." She said her voice just on this side of confident.

He gave her a weird look. Was she serious? She couldn't be. No one wanted to listen to him anymore, not for the past decade at least. And that was fine with him; it didn't help him to talk about them anyways. Didn't help him to relive not only his time in the arena, but theirs too.

"Haymitch?" She was looking at him worriedly now. And a selfish part of him enjoyed the attention, because it had been so long since someone had cared about him. Ever since his mother had died he'd longed for someone to protect him like she had, to love him like she had. He'd spent half of his life pushing people away and all he wanted was for someone to push back, to make him admit that maybe, just maybe he wasn't okay.

Compelled by something he didn't quite understand, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead before pressing his forehead to hers, placing a hand on her neck to keep me in place.

"Thank you sweetheart," he muttered.

For the second time that night Haymitch got to see Effie Trinket in a state of shock as he stood up and took a drink from his flask. He couldn't be vulnerable; he couldn't let someone push past the walls because he'd spent years building them up, and who liked to see a life's work torn down? He took another drink from the flask and felt the alcohol start to take effect on his brain, the pain slowly fading away into blissful numbness.

He spun on his heel, not drunk enough to deal with the look of hurt on Effie's face with the knowledge he put it there. But when he went to walk away he was stopped again.

"Haymitch, wait." Effie's voice was softer this time when she called him, less sure than she had been a few minutes ago.

Suddenly, Haymitch was furious. Who was this woman that he could make him stop just by saying his name? And he was half cocked for God sakes! He didn't want to feel so controlled by a woman he barely knew, he didn't want to have feelings for this woman either, but that ship had long sailed.

He answered her without turning his back. "I'll be in my room."

And that's where he went after he'd made the necessary stops at the bar car to stock up on his booze. He had a feeling he was going to need a lot to get him through this night. He could still hear the party going on around him and it made him sick to his stomach. Apparently his stomach decided to take that random thought to heart and the neck thing he knew he was emptying his stomach into the toilet.

He cursed when he heard the knock at the door because he already knew who it was, because who else would be knocking at his door? Even the Avoxes knew better than to knock, or come into his room for that matter. He didn't bother to answer the door; she was going to come in anyways. When the door clicked open he wasn't surprised; contrary to what everyone thought, he hadn't completely fallen off the edge.

When he'd finally finished dry heaving, he flushed the toilet and stumbled out into the main area of the room. Surprise, surprise, there was Effie Trinket, sitting with a disgusted look on her face on the end of his bed. In her defense, his room was a mess. Not wanting to get too close to her he just sat against the wall- something he seemed to be doing a lot of lately-and looked at her. Effie had slipped her shoes off and had pulled her knees to her chest, her dress long enough to lend her the modesty to do so.

"Well then Trinket, you gonna give me some lecture on drinking and morality?" He knew he was being rude but at this point, who really cared?

Apparently Effie, "Manners Haymitch! And no I did not come here to lecture you. I came here to make sure you hadn't killed yourself."

Haymitch laughed, "Sorry to disappoint sweetheart."

Effie huffed and shook her head, not commenting on what he'd said. "You know Haymitch, if you stopped thinking about yourself for just one moment you'd see that there are people who want to help you."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "I'm not a martyr princess. I've never been a hero, don't make me one."

"You were to me," he heard her mumbles and his head shot up.

Haymitch would never have guessed that Effie Trinket thought him to be a hero. He'd never doubted that she'd watched the Games as a child but to consider him a hero? He mind conjured up an image of a childhood Effie, and the image would have made him smile under other circumstances.

"You thought I was a hero?" He asked his voice laced with cautious curiosity.

Effie shrugged simply, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. "I was only a child! And you _were_ a hero Haymitch, and not just to Twelve…" She sighed, and shook her head. "I thought you were brave. Smart too."

Haymitch gave her a crooked grin and Effie couldn't help but remember the same grin on his face from when he'd been on his victory tour. As quickly as it came though it was gone and Effie couldn't help but wonder how Haymitch would have turned out had he never been reaped. To be carefree – she bet he would look better relaxed. Like sometimes, when she would go into his room when she heard him having a nightmare. She would talk to him in his sleep to calm him down, and when he finally did, he looked so much younger and Effie got a glimpse of what he could have been.

Haymitch sighed and took yet another drink from his flask, "I was a murderer. Still am, and guess what Princess? That's what your almighty Capitol did. Created another murderer each and every year for the past 70 years." His voice was full of spite and it made Effie frown.

"Now now Haymitch, that is not true. The Games are a way to show bravery and to bring honour to the districts. It's a penance."

Haymitch's answering glare sent shivers down her spine and she recoiled. Maybe The Capitol version of the Games was not the alley to walk down at the moment.

"Why don't you ever talk about them? The tributes I mean… from before." She asked softly, hoping the question wouldn't upset him.

Haymitch shrugged, paying too much attention to his flask. "They're dead, what's there to talk about? It's not going to bring them back, it's not going to ease the pain of their families. Not going to make it any easier to sleep at night…"

And suddenly he was talking, and he was saying everything he swore he'd never tell anybody. He was talking about his games and how his family has been slaughtered two weeks after he'd gotten home. And how in the beginning he'd given people hope because they all believed that he would be able to save their kids and how that hope as slowly faded as even fifteen years later he's hadn't saved a single one. Just watched thirty more kids die in the name on entertainment. How when he went to sleep he could see Maysilee Donner die and how he could feel her warm blood drain under his hands and that no matter how hard and how many times he tried, he couldn't save her.

And the whole while Effie sat there, not saying a thing just listening to him as he talked and talked and talked. On occasion, when he'd look up at her he'd notice that the more he talked the paler she seemed to get, and although he could understand her reaction, he didn't sympathize with her. He couldn't because no one could live in ignorance forever; Haymitch had learned that the hard way at sixteen.

After a moment of silence Effie finally moved, she got up off the bed and sunk to her knees in front of him. Slowly, as if he would break if she moved to fast she cupped his face and in a reciprocation of his previous actions, pressed a kiss to his forehead. Haymitch closed his eyes as she did so, the act itself shocked him into silence but the meaning behind it kept him quiet even after he'd recovered.

When she pulled back she met his gaze head on, "I'm sorry Haymitch."

The next thing he knew she was gone, leaving him with his thoughts, questions, regrets and utter shock. He understood her apology though, what else could she have said? What else did you say to someone who couldn't be comforted with words? Someone utterly broken; mind, body and soul. He drank the last of the alcohol in his flask and slowly got up off the floor. He needed more booze.

**A.N. **Yeah, I know. Bad ending to a bad story. Please leave a review and don't worry I know I can't stick to an original plot line.


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